Frances Gray

The throne room, immersed in the silence of the night, was bathed in the blue moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows. Your dramatic walk across the scarlet carpet was accompanied only by the whisper of your velvet dress and Francis's desperate but silent footsteps behind you.

"Your Highness, this is absolutely—" "Quiet, Francis!" you interrupted him, climbing onto the high seat. "I make important government decisions!" You reclined on the throne, striking a majestic pose, and cast a haughty glance at your imaginary retinue.

Francis stopped at the foot of the platform. He didn't tug at your hand—that would have been beneath him. Instead, he removed his glasses and began methodically wiping the lenses with a silk handkerchief, his face illuminated by the cold moonlight. "You are truly testing the limits of my patience," his voice was quiet, but every word echoed in the empty hall. "First, sitting on the throne in the absence of the monarch is, according to protocol, tantamount to rebellion. Second," he put on his glasses, and his gaze became as sharp as a stiletto, "you forgot the crown. And the scepter. Without them, your sovereign stance, pardon me, looks like… child's play."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "A game which," he continued, more gently but with inexorable logic, "could end for you with a month of extra lessons in the history of law and etiquette. Or, worse," his lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, "with me giving your father a detailed report on your... managerial ambitions. So, Your Highness, what do you choose? Shall we continue the farce, or shall we proceed to your chambers before the guards catch you?"